Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER NINE

JO STUCK THE END OFthe mrt into the tiny hole and jabbed upward. The ceiling panel flopped down on a hinge and four oxygen masks tumbled out with a perverse jack-in-the-box-like swing.

“Why is this necessary again?” a woman on the aisle asked the flight attendant. The man next to her at the window didn’t hide his skepticism, arms crossed, his ginger ale and chip bag now empty.

“Honey, I don’t make the rules. I just follow them,” Jo said. “A sensor up front told the pilots that the system that drops the masks automatically may not be working. When that happens, FAA protocol requires…”

Jo had started at the first row of first class, Daddy at the over-wing, Kellie in row eighteen. Row by row they went, informing the passengers of the regulation, dropping the masks, fielding any questions, and then quickly getting out so they could repeat the process with the next row back.

Stay calm, stay confident,Jo told them just before they started. The crew would set the tone. If this wasn’t a big deal to them, it wasn’t a big deal at all. They weren’t manipulating the passengers per se, they were artfully managing a perception that was in the plane’s best interest.

As a career flight attendant and mother of two, Jo knew there wasn’t much difference between the roles.

Get the masks out. That was step one—the most important step. Get the masks out and available so the passengers could protect themselves when the time came.

Step two: manage the inevitable confusion and resistance.

Step three: deal with whatever “backup plan” might pop up after steps one and two.

Step four: fight and survive the actual attack.

Step five: evacuate the plane upon landing at JFK.

The crew decided to focus on step one, which, in light of everything else, felt manageable.

Dangling yellow masks began to fill the plane as the three flight attendants made steady progress. When she finished with a row, Jo would do a quick visual sweep of the cabin before moving on to the next. She didn’t know what she was looking for; it wasn’t like someone in a ski mask was going to hop out and tell her to put her hands up. Still, she assumed something would seem off. But nothing did. She already felt hunted and the false sense of normalcy made the tension worse.

Every row jumped as the compartment popped open even though they knew to expect it. The passengers thanked Jo after the masks dropped as though she had just set their warm chicken entrees in front of them. They were confused and nervous, understandably.

But ultimately, they complied.

Jo had assumed it would go like that. After all, a flight is just a random sample of the general population, a classic bell curve. A few assholes and a few exemplars, but primarily, a whole bunch of sheep.

Jo would often sit on her jump seat during takeoff and assess the group assembled for that particular flight. She would consider who would be an ABP—Able Bodied Person—willing to assist in an emergency. She would find her hot spots, those passengers already showing a proclivity for noncompliance. But she would also wander to the realm of questions like, Okay, if something were to happen, who’s gonna be the comic relief? Who’s gonna be the drama queen? Who’s the rebel? Who’s the hero? Who’s the coward?

“I knew it,” Jo said to herself, watching a woman storm up the aisle. Her husband stayed behind holding a squirming baby.

“I have a child,” the woman said to Jo in a way that was somehow an accusation.

Jo glanced over the woman’s shoulder. “And he’s adorable. Congratulations.”

“This is not funny,” the woman hissed. “The kind of emotional trauma my baby is being put through with these, these—things—everywhere”—she gestured at the masks—“will scar him for life.”

Jo tried not to look down at the young couple holding their own child who was roughly the same age as the woman’s. “Ma’am, I’m sorry you find this upsetting. Unfortunately, policy dictates—”

“I don’t care what the policy is.”

“Well, I’m afraid the FAA does. This is for your baby’s safety.”

“I will decide what is safe for my baby,” the woman said, leaning in to examine Jo’s name bar. “Jo what?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What is your last name, Jo? I will be writing in.”

Jo shifted her weight. “Just to make sure I understand, ma’am. You’re going to write the airline to inform them that this crew not only knows FAA and company policy but also enforces it?” She paused. “Watkins. W-A-T-K-I-N-S. Would you like my supervisor’s email too? I can write this all down for you if it helps. I really want to make sure this information gets to the right people.”

The woman curled her lip. “How dare you think—”

“Ah, shut up, lady,” the man in the window seat next to the young couple said. “She’s just doing her job.”

“Don’t you tell me to—”

“Your kid is still shitting his pants. He doesn’t even know where his nose is.”

“My child—”

“Ma’am,” Big Daddy said, sliding himself between the woman and the row. “Your darling baby boy is back there wondering why his mother is yelling at people. Please go back to your seat and inform him of the great news—Coastal will be giving you a bunch of free miles for this truly harrowing personal trauma you and no one else has had to endure.”

“I will have—”

“At-a,” Daddy said, holding up his palm. “One more word and authorities are meeting the aircraft.”

“But—”

“Karen, I swear to god,” he said.

“My name is Janice.”

Daddy wrinkled his nose. “But is it?”

Narrowing her eyes, she stormed off in a huff, the husband looking rightfully fearful as she sat back down.

“Don’t worry,” Big Daddy said just loud enough for the rows within earshot to hear, “I’m not rewarding that behavior. The only thing she’s getting is a dysfunctional teenager. Jo, the plane is FAA compliant in the back,” he said with a salute.

“Perfect. Thank you,” Jo said before leaning in, lowering her voice. “Anyone raise suspicions?”

“Maybe one guy,” Daddy said, barely even a whisper. “Aisle seat, aircraft right, two rows behind me. Buzz cut.”

Jo nonchalantly shifted her weight to see around Big Daddy. She quickly flicked a look at the man.

“The tall guy?”

“Tall?” Daddy said. “When he went into the bathroom he had to duck.”

“What’s suspicious about him?”

Big Daddy shook his head. “It’s just a hunch. Kellie and I actually commented on his weird vibe before any of this started.”

Jo nodded. “We’ll keep our eye on him. Send Kellie up. I’ll check the manifest so she can Google him and see what comes up.”

Daddy headed to the back while Jo finished the final few rows, which went smoothly. She was just releasing the last set when Kellie came up behind her.

“I didn’t know you had Rick Ryan in first,” Kellie said, eyes trained on the front of the plane.

Looking over her shoulder, Jo saw the kid who had been sitting at the window in row two leaning up against the lav, scrolling on his phone. He wasn’t really a kid. Probably somewhere in his midtwenties. But the beanie, hoodie, and tattoos gave off an odd arrested development. Jo assumed he was considered hip and fashionable by those who knew what hip and fashionable were.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Jo said.

“He’s got like ten million Instagram followers,” Kellie said.

“Why?”

Kellie shrugged.

“But what’s he famous for? What does he do?”

“I actually have no idea. He just is?”

Seeing the two watching, he waved them over.

“Don’t you dare ask for an autograph,” Jo whispered to Kellie as they walked up. “Mr. Ryan, did you need something?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You want to explain this?” He held up his phone and the women squinted at the bright light in the dim cabin. It was a selfie of himself wearing the oxygen mask. Kellie leaned forward to read the specifics. Twelve hundred likes, two hundred and forty-three comments. He had posted the picture only six minutes ago.

“Shit,” Kellie muttered under her breath.

“Explain what?” Jo asked. “Sorry, kids, I’m lost.”

“I posted this on Instagram. Said what was happening. And now everyone’s like, Dude, that’s not real.”

Jo stared. “What’s not real?”

“This FAR stuff,” he said. “People are saying it’s bogus. Like, airline people.”

Jo’s stomach dropped. She glanced at Kellie, who didn’t appear to have anything to say.

“Mr. Ryan,” said Jo, not entirely certain of what she would say next. Suddenly a chime sounded through the cabin; a call button, row ten.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ryan. We have to get that but we’ll be right back to explain.”

“What do we do?” Kellie whispered as they left him up front. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Calm down,” Jo whispered back. “We were going to have to tell them something anyway. We just need to figure out what that something is and craft the message first. It’ll be fine, we just need a little time.” Jo sounded like she was in total control but as she went to turn off the call light in row ten, she saw that her hand was shaking. “Yes, sir?” she said to the man in the middle seat.

“Yeah,” he said, pointing at the TV in the seatback in front of him. “I’d like to know about this?”

Jo angled her head to where she could see the screen. He was watching the news, and on the screen was Rick Ryan’s—apparently—now viral picture. Looking up, she saw his mask-covered face on many screens, the number increasing as passengers switched channels. Almost instantly, his face seemed to be everywhere. Growing murmurs of doubt and dissent filled the cabin, the energy shifting.

“Well?” the man asked, pointing at the TV. “What aren’t you telling us? What the hell is going on?”

A rumble of support went through the cabin.

Jo turned to look at Kellie, who was looking back at her, and it was suddenly clear to both of them that they were totally, completely, and utterly screwed.

Jo opened her mouth to speak. Not because she knew what to say, but because she had to say something.

“Okay, everybody. Listen—”

A loud triple high-low chime bleated through the cabin, cutting her off. Jo and Kellie whipped their heads to the back to see the flashing amber light above the lav, aircraft left.

Smoke alarm. Fire in the bathroom.